Who Will Go?
by Itarille
Summary: Listening to his father speak as he prepares to leave Valinor, Maedhros muses about Feanor and comes to a decision.


Disclaimer: All settings, characters and situations are owned by Tolkien. 

_Who will go drive with Fergus now,_

_And pierce the deep wood's woven shade_

_And dance upon the level shore?_

_Young man, lift up your russet brow_

_And lift your tender eyelids, maid,_

_And brood on hopes and fear no more._

_And no more turn aside and brood_

_Upon love's bitter mystery_

_For Fergus rules the brazen cars,_

_And rules the shadows of the wood_

_And the white breast of the dim sea_

_And all disheveled wandering stars_

-WB Yeats 

For Furius 

* * *

The square is filled with the light of torches, flickering and feeble. They are to keep the darkness at bay. It amuses Maedhros somewhat; no one feared the darkness before the light was taken away. This applies very much to his father, as well. Many more people are willing to listen now that what they always regarded as constant, their safety and their happiness and their trivial lives, are threatened.

Now they gather here, their faces troubled and sad, wrapped in the tattered remainders of their beliefs and their illusions. Their paradise is shattered, broken and empty of the joy it once held. It is not only the loss of the light of the trees; something else is lacking, something they thought was once here. Perhaps it was never here, and they are fools. Perhaps it is merely that they have stopped believing.

Whatever the reason, they are here, and they are listening, torchlight reflecting on upturned faces. Not only are they listening; they are calling out in agreement in loud, angry voices, imitating Feanor himself. Of course, none can eclipse him, and his voice rings out above the others, clear and furious and beautiful. There is no match for him, Maedhros's father; he stands high above the crowd, his hair swinging as he gestures sharply, almost violently. His hair seems blacker than ever before, and his eyes to burn with an even brighter light. He has never been this magnificent, this splendid; he has never before blazed so fiercely, so much so that Maedhros fears he will be blinded in one glorious, heady flash.

Yet he does not turn away, but continues to gaze up at his father, his head cocked slightly to one side; he has never before seen his father this glorious, and he knows full well that it is not the height that puts his father so far above the crowd. Still, Maedhros cannot help but wonder how much more his father can be. Surely Feanor cannot help but to be anything but anticlimactic from now on. That is a worrying thought, and so he pointedly ignores it.

It continues to lurk, however, in the back of his mind, like a predator waiting to pounce. Maedhros believes in his father, and in what he says. Indeed, it has never before been so easy to believe in anything, never before been so easy to trust as now, watching Feanor speak. The crowd around him has been seduced, bewitched by the words breaking upon them like waves against the cliffs. They will follow his father until the end of the earth; that is, after all, where he will take them.

Yet they do not know his father as he does. They have not seen the white-hot intensity of Feanor's love, the angry passion. They have not seen his mother, with her sunken cheeks and her hollow smile and her tired eyes. Maedhros wants to tell them that they know nothing about it, that they do not know who his father is, and what he can do. He wants to warn them. Yet why should he? He owes them nothing. He owes his father everything, for he would be nothing if not for his father.

They are fools, anyhow, Maedhros thinks, eyeing the people around him. The elves cannot take their eyes off his father, their faces pale, and their eyes wide. He would not be surprised if they started to drool, like animals.

It is not that he is jealous, he thinks, crossing his arms. It is only that they are fools, their round little eyes gaping. He watches them, momentarily distracted, and marvels at his father's power, that he has made them so smitten, so completely under his spell. Maedhros himself would like to be able to make people so happy, so satisfied, and so complete, as they seem to be now.

His gaze travels around and through the people surrounding him, the blackness and the light pooling on their faces in equal quantities; like good and evil, one never dominates, and they are always mixed. It surprises him when a woman looks back, her brow knitted and her eyes questioning. Maedhros has forgotten, for a moment, that he is here as well, that he is not an undetectable onlooker, but also a member of the crowd, along with everyone else.

The woman is tall and narrow, every line of her body and face sharp and taut. Nonetheless, she is still what one would call beautiful, only in a stark, harsh way. She watches him, running a tongue over her lips nervously. There is a hardness about her, but not an unfriendliness; he senses that it is only her way, nothing more. She seems curious about him, in a rather detached way; no doubt she recognizes him as one of Feanor's sons. Maedhros is just as curious about her as she seems to be about him.

He cannot help but wonder why she is here. She seems to be alone; for while the crowd is tight around her, no one seems to belong to her, or she to any of them. She must have left both her home and her family, and her friends as well. Maedhros, at least, has not left everything; he has his brothers, his cousins, and most of all, his father. He does not know if he could do what she does, what she seems to do so easily.

It occurs to Maedhros then, suddenly and glaringly, that he himself does not know his reasons for being here, for following. For love, he thinks, but that can only be partly true, for he loves his mother as well, and yet he is here. For glory, maybe, and Maedhros knows that is partly true as well. Perhaps because, beneath it all, he has failed to escape from Feanor's spell; for Maedhros believes, completely and utterly. He believes in everything his father says and everything he will ever say. He believes in black hair, the color of night and temptation and enchantment, unruly in the wind, and a voice clear as the sky and as thunderous as a summer storm. Most of all, Maedhros believes in his father's unstoppable, unquenchable power, and knows that Feanor can and will do anything.

He looks back at Feanor, then, Feanor who stands high above the crowd and is what everyone else would like to be. His father meets his eyes, blazing with a white fire, and Maedhros meets them unflinchingly. Feanor issues a silent challenge as he stands there with his eyes blazing, and his head thrown back.

It is a question, a demanding query. It is the same look Maedhros has seen in his father's eyes before, in the forge, as they hunt, anywhere. It seems to ask if he is coming, if he will follow, and at the same time it is conspiratorial, smug, as if to ask, why not? His father asks if he will come, if he will lose himself in his father's words, in his belief, and if he will follow, as far as his father will go.

Maedhros does not have to think about the question; for as long as he has lived, the answer has always been the same. So he answers Feanor's question just as silently as it was asked. There is no need for words.

A small grin is visible on Feanor's face even in the darkness; as if to say, then what are we waiting for? Maedhros takes one last look at the woman. She smiles timidly, steadily, a vague smile that is also a promise of things to come. Then he turns away, back to his father, and grins. He is ready; he is more than ready, he is impatient.

Feanor begins to swear an oath, a terrible, dark oath; but all Maedhros can hear is the beauty of his father's voice. He jumps to his father's side, pulling out his blade, his eyes blazing just as Feanor's do. He is filled with a wild abandon, and he loses himself in the oath, his face shining with a thousand hopes and dreams.

For there is nothing to fear, nothing at all. His father rules the distant shores and the stars and the shadows of the wood, with his blaze and his splendor, and Maedhros is content to follow.


End file.
